


Two Sovereign Masters

by dulcepericulum (keziahrain)



Series: hold your head up [4]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Backstory, Billy Hargrove is a Mess, Child Abuse, Condoms, Drinking, Dubious Consent, Gay Disaster Billy Hargrove, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Queer Themes, Reference to HIV/AIDS Crisis, Sibling Bonding, Time Skips, Underage - Freeform, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28441797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keziahrain/pseuds/dulcepericulum
Summary: “Nature has placed mankind under the governance of two sovereign masters, pain and pleasure.”  –Jeremy BenthamorBilly Backstory Triptych
Relationships: (one-sided), Billy Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Billy Hargrove & Neil Hargrove, Billy Hargrove/Original Male Character(s), Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: hold your head up [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043124
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	Two Sovereign Masters

**Author's Note:**

> Part 4 in the series "hold your head up." 
> 
> 1\. Sort of a floating interlude for self-indulgent Billy headcanon. Hopefully all adding texture to Part 5. :)
> 
> 2\. Please take tags/warnings seriously and avoid if not for you. Re: Underage tag – a 13-year-old is written as having a developing sexuality and (solo) sexual experiences. Again - if troubling to you, I ask you don't read. 
> 
> 3\. The events in section three of this fic take place after the flashback that opens "hold your head up" Part 2, but before the story Billy tells Steve about going home for winter break in Part 1.

1.

_1980 (age 13)_

The apartment is just like Billy’s: two shoe boxes stacked neatly on a row of car ports. Except half this building was destroyed by fire last week. The city will bulldoze next week. 

After the residents rescued what they could, the looters came through, then waves of kids. Everyone’s parents tell them to stay away, so naturally it’s a popular spot. By the time Billy and his friends Scott and Curtis arrive on Saturday afternoon to prowl around like cats, the whole scene’s fairly picked over. 

Billy wrinkles his nose. The air tastes charred, and the hallway carpet is sodden from the fire hose. Their shoes squelch. 

Why do they give some apartments more attention than others? No reason, except shared radar drawing them toward neglected nooks and crannies. 

They find and pocket cufflinks, playing cards, poker chips, dice, $7.86 in loose change, and cheap costume jewelry collected on behalf of mothers and sisters. 

Billy doesn’t have a mother anymore. He has a sister he doesn’t want. And Max wouldn’t want anything to do with chunky rings and bangles and clip-on earrings. 

Still, he pokes through the jewelry boxes, pulled in by the sparkle. Maybe it reminds him a little of his mom, sitting at her vanity, getting ready for a date with Dad. 

“Get a load of this!” Curtis yells from another room. 

He’s hit the jackpot. A well-made leather suitcase in the back of a closet, protecting the ultimate buried treasure in an expedition like theirs: 

“Dirty magazines!” 

There’s no mistaking the lurid headlines and glossy covers, the curves and colors of naked flesh. Dozens of them, stacked neatly and bound together with string. They unbind them, each grabbing a magazine, and begin to page through feverishly. 

For several long moments, only their panting breath in the silence. 

And then it hits them, all at the same time – the exact nature of the material in their sweaty palms. 

“This is some faggoty shit!” Scott shouts, dropping the magazine as if burned. The other two follow suit, Billy perhaps a beat too late. 

(Truthfully, he wants nothing more than to keep that magazine. He wants to take it to a corner and curl up and study it carefully, cover to cover.) 

Curtis and Scott start to yell and jump around, like they’ve stumbled on a beehive or a beartrap – something dangerous, even deadly. 

Billy watches them, dazed. He understands, instinctually, that he should join in the theatrics; once he unfreezes himself, it’s easy to do, fueled by a rush of adrenaline. There is huge relief in flailing and laughing like he’s crying. 

They bounce around, stomping on the magazines, ripping and scattering the pages into a wet, pulpy mess on the carpet. Soon they are shoving each other, grappling like puppies. Billy almost can’t recall what they’re so wound up about, until he tangles too long with Scott and feels warmth pooling in his groin. 

The sensation is like a warning shot. He stops cold and announces, “My dad will be looking for me” (not a lie), and abruptly takes off. 

Billy can picture Scott and Curtis, left behind, stunned, standing in the wreckage of gay porno. Curtis might say, “What’s his problem?” and Scott might shrug and answer, “You know his dad’s a hard-ass.” 

He runs all the way home – eight blocks. As predicted, Billy’s dad is waiting for him in the kitchen. Dad takes one look at Billy’s wet shoes and puts it all together before Billy can even offer up a lie. 

There’s a moment, like always, where Billy fantasizes about running back out the door. He can see himself doing it, like he’s watching a movie and he and his dad are just characters. In the movie, the dad sometimes tries to catch the son, but he’s too slow. The son is already long gone. 

As usual, Billy allows himself to be distracted by this daydream. One instant, his dad’s staring at him from across the room. And then next the thing Billy knows, his dad’s on him, smacking him hard across the face, grabbing his arm, dragging him to the table. 

Then Billy gets the belt. For a long time. 

Afterward, he retreats to his room and lowers himself gingerly onto his bed. He finally allows the tears he’s been holding to leak freely down his face. 

He can hear Dad talking to Susan somewhere in the house. Where were she and Max when he got home? What did they see? What did they hear? 

Dad likes to say, “Don’t make me do this, Billy.” 

Billy almost always makes Dad do it. 

Can’t seem to avoid it. 

Humiliation bleeds into rage bleeds into bewilderment. 

Cutting through it all, something new: he simply can’t stop thinking about the magazines. The dirty pictures he managed to see are seared into his brain. 

Men naked. Kissing. Holding each other. Doing things to each other that Billy had never imagined and doesn’t understand but cannot forget. 

In a strange way, it’s comforting to let his mind turn the images over and over. A diversion from the misery of this tiny room. The warmth he felt earlier with Scott returns, and he doesn’t resist this time, allows it to wash over him and soothe his sore body and frayed nerves. He closes his eyes. 

The more Billy thinks about it the more he _wants_ to think about it. 

A powerful tide moves through him, like he’s being carried on his board by an ocean wave. His stupid family is on a far shore. They can’t see him. 

He’s rising, rising, rising… 

He crests, crashes. 

_Wipeout_. 

Oh, shit – he’s made a mess in his shorts. 

He’ll have to rinse them out in the sink before tossing them in the laundry. 

Billy catches his breath, feeling lighter, tingly. He scrubs a hand over his damp face, vaguely surprised to remember he has a face. He’s been so lost in his imagination, he missed his room turning darker. It’s dusk. 

Tomorrow is Sunday. Billy resolves to return to the abandoned apartment building. He will go alone. He will bring a backpack for collection purposes. He will find his way back to that apartment, to that closet, to the suitcase. He will think of a secure hiding place to store whatever he finds. 

Because some of those magazine pages are probably still intact.

  
  





_1984 (age 17)_

They proceed through the week as though nothing has happened. 

Like Max hadn’t kicked Billy awake that past Sunday at 2 a.m., there in that freaky house with the drawings. 

His memory reports that a bunch of people were there – some familiar – Wheelers, Byers, a handful of middle school kids, including Sinclair. 

At the time, Billy was too foggy to take it all in. 

He searched urgently around the dim room for one specific face, one lanky form: Harrington.

Where was Harrington? 

He couldn’t bring himself to ask Max that night. 

She requested that Billy drive them home. More accurately, she issued the order. He remembered Dad and got behind the wheel readily enough. He spent the whole drive concentrating on the dotted yellow line and trying not to puke. 

He was sure Dad would kick his ass when they got home. 

But nothing really happened. Susan sighed and herded Max to bed. Dad scowled at Billy. _Here it comes,_ he thought. Then his dad said, _Be ready for school at the usual time. No excuses._ And that was that. 

Now, the fact is that Dad sometimes makes Billy wait for his wrath, keeps the timing of the punishment ambiguous. That might be happening now. However, that tactic usually comes with some indication it’s happening, like a cat toys with a mouse. Dad wants to make sure Billy’s real on edge about it. 

This time, it’s more like Dad simply isn’t aware his son pummeled the prom king and had to be sedated like an animal by his perfect daughter. 

  
Billy can’t figure it out. 

Meanwhile, Harrington’s been absent from school all week. 

An absence like a presence needling at Billy’s skin. Even though they’re in different classes, Harrington normally takes up so much space at Hawkins High School: his voice, his smile, the way his clothes fit him. There’s been an imbalance, a dissonance, a rift in the universe. Everything’s off because Harrington is not here. 

And whose fault is that? 

Billy is such a fucking asshole. 

This whole situation makes him want to throw his desk at his teachers. He feels barely contained from hour to hour. Everyone, including most adults, perceive he could go nuclear and give him a lot of space. 

He has a nightmare on Tuesday that Harrington’s dead, that Billy killed him. _That can’t be true. Right?_

If Harrington’s dead, the cops would;ve come knocking at Cherry Road by now. There’d be a school assembly. The principal would make an announcement. The girls would cry, and the boys would pretend not to cry. 

Even the teachers would cry, and they all think Harrington is a moron. 

Harrington may be a fool but he’s everyone’s fool. 

Billy knows he fucked up going after Harrington like that. 

Maybe he wishes he’d not done that. 

Maybe Harrington’s in the hospital. Maybe he’s in a coma. Maybe they’re just waiting to pull the plug so they can charge Billy with murder. 

The thought makes him feel heavy-limbed, soul-sick, so disgusted and furious with himself he could spit. 

_King Steve is dead. Long live King Steve._

On Thursday night, Billy picks a fight with his dad just to break the tension building in his gut. Dad, ever ready to put him in his place, gives him a bloody nose at the dinner table. 

“Neil, not in front of Maxine!” Susan cries. 

“That’s up to Billy,” Neil answers sternly. “Son, what kind of example are you setting for your sister?” 

Billy can’t stop laughing til Dad splits his lip and sends him to his room for the night. 

The following morning, there they are, “brother and sister,” Billy and Max. Sitting in the parked Camaro on a Friday morning, twenty minutes ahead of schedule, acting like it’s business as usual. 

After Billy has a rough night with his dad, they often leave early for school the next day. It’s like they’re both eager to get the hell out of there. 

The routine is to hit the McDonald’s drive-thru, even on days like this, when barely a word or acknowledgement passes between them, when they hate each other’s guts. 

Their secret ritual. 

They stay in the parking lot, sipping styrofoam-flavored coffee and eating hotcakes while listening to music in the car. He even lets her choose the tape. Fleetwood Mac. 

It’s kind of peaceful. 

Until Billy reaches to adjust the tuner and Max glances over at him and gasps softly.

“Billy, your nose!”

He shoves his food in the cup holder and examines his face in the rearview. Yep – blood dribbling out his right nostril. The dry heat in the car must’ve loosened the scab in there. 

“Shit, do you have something?” he asks, but she’s already handing over a fistful of napkins for him to stuff against his face. 

It’s not a dignified position, having to sit here like this, waiting for his bloody nose to slow down. He’s a captive audience under Max’s gaze. It’s not the same expression of righteous indignation she gave him in the freaky house when she almost emasculated him, but it’s related. Piercing, unfazed. 

Why does she act like she grew up overnight? Did she get her period or something? Did she and Sinclair make it to first base? 

“What?” he snaps.

“Why do you make your dad so angry?” Max asks, like she’s asking him to pass the salt.  
  


“Fuck off.” His voice comes out nasally.

“Don’t you want him to leave you alone?”

Billy shrugs. “It doesn’t matter what I do. He’ll never leave me alone.”

Max can’t argue with that logic. She’s quiet, working on her coffee while he checks his nose. Still bleeding sluggishly. Christine McVie sings “Over My Head”: 

_You can take me anytime you like_

_I'll be around if you think you might_

_Over my head_

_(Over my head)_

_But it sure feels nice_

“Sometimes I think you deserve it,” Max declares, like the shitstain she is. 

Billy slaps the tape out of the deck. She flinches. It’s less than satisfying. 

In the harsh silence, he can hear the tears bubbling up in her throat.

“Why did you beat on Steve?” Max demands. “He didn’t deserve that!” 

“I don’t know, OK?” Now he’s crying too, like a pussy.

“You’re just like him sometimes,” Max accuses, meaning his dad, and she’s right. He’s a chip off the old block more than Neil Hargrove will ever appreciate.

“I know. I... I lost it. You win, Maxine. I’m a fucking monster.” 

The little bitch _rolls her eyes._

“You’re not a monster,” she assures him, looking weirdly unshakeable. 

“If you say so,” he says, then, as casually as possible: “How is he?” 

“Steve? He’s got a concussion and his face is Hamburger Helper, you prick. Nancy told Mike who told us that his parents are keeping him at home for a while.” Pause. “You don’t have to worry, though. He won’t tell anyone it was you. His parents think he got mugged. Like someone would get mugged in Hawkins.” 

Billy snorts. “Why’s he not telling? He hates me.” 

Max appears almost embarrassed. “I don’t want Neil to kill you, so I asked him not to.”

He sputters, panicked, but she cuts him off.

“I didn’t tell him anything, Billy. I’m not an idiot. I said if my parents knew about the fight, they might keep me away from my friends. Which is true, by the way. So, like, not everything is about you.” 

She stops, considering. 

Then: “I don’t think Steve would’ve snitched anyway. Before I got to him, Chief Hopper asked if he wanted to press charges against anyone, and he said no.” 

The mention of the police chief piques Billy’s curiosity. 

“What were you shitheads doing there that night?” he pushes. 

“ _Nothing_!” Max insists. “We were just hanging out. I snuck out to Will Byers’ house and then he got really sick and his mom took him to the hospital. Jonathan and Nancy went too, so Mrs. Byers called Steve to come and stay with us. Mrs. Byers explained it all to your dad.” 

It’s all reasonable but Billy squints at her, unconvinced. There had been something strange in the air that night. An undercurrent of violence, fear, excitement – and not just from him, the usual source. 

The charge had been radiating off Harrington, too. An electricity, a force, something that turned the volume of Billy’s desires up from a low, constant hum to a full-throated scream. 

He vividly remembers climbing out of his car, seeing Harrington – of all people! – standing in the door. Long legs, hands on hips, hair standing tall like a proud rooster’s comb. 

The jeans skimmed Harrington’s hips and thighs, perfectly cupping the legendary dong. The upperclass girls wrote sonnets to that thing. Billy had stolen a glance or two in the locker room. 

He felt the blood in his veins pick up speed; he felt too hot, too big, too… himself. 

_That you, Harrington?_

_Yeah, it’s me, Don’t cream your pants._

And Billy remembers thinking, _Does Harrington know? Does he know what he does to me?_

The terror in that question had overwhelmed his common sense, his self-control, and eventually his self-awareness. 

At some point, he forgot what he was doing and why. 

All he knew was that in that moment, hitting came as naturally as breathing. His body was fluent in this language of rage and pain, his muscles remembering every cry. He was trying to tell Harrington something, but Harrington didn’t get it, so Billy’s arms and hands said it louder and louder, and that Pretty Boy’s face turned bruised and red and wet… 

“You did the right thing,” Billy grunts at Max, looking straight ahead. “Putting me on the ground like that.”

A true peace offering. 

“But don’t get any more ideas, shit-bird,” he adds. 

He glances over in time to catch Max’s face melting from shock into a shy smile. 

Billy’s nose has stopped bleeding. He throws the bloody knot of tissues in back and puts the Camaro in gear. Time to head to school. 

“One more question,” he says as they ease out of the parking lot. “Why the hell does Mrs. Byers have all that horse tranquilizer?” 

  
  


  1. _1987 (age 20)_



  
  


The fight is inevitable. 

Psych 101 is ending and his TA Roger still wants to go steady. 

Billy’s done being the teacher's pet, and says as much late on a Friday night. 

Roger tries to talk him out of it; thinks he knows what’s good for Billy because he’s a whole six years older. Because he’s in graduate school. Because his dad’s a professor, not a security guard like Neil. 

Roger doesn’t say all of that out loud, but it’s loudly implied. 

Evidently someone’s been nursing fantasies of lifting Billy out of the working class gutter and grooming him to his full potential. 

As if Billy didn’t get _himself_ into UCLA in the first place. 

Billy tells Roger to shove his Pygmalion bullshit up his ass. He starts gathering up his stuff he’s left around the apartment. 

From there, everything unfolds predictably. The conversation escalates to yelling, then grabbing, then grappling. Fighting turns into fucking around, clothes peeling off, boners rubbing together.

Billy lets himself get pinned to the bed. Roger launches into the dirty talk, calling him a filthy whore and hungry slut. “You need this,” and “No one gives you what I give you.” 

Billy throws back his head and laughs. 

Roger slaps him, then closes both hands around his throat and squeezes. He knows Billy hates this, and that’s why he does it – to test Billy’s endurance. 

Normally, Billy swallows his panic and rises to the challenge but not tonight. He’s bored with Roger. He wants to take a breath. He wants his heart not to explode. When his vision begins to cloud with stars, Billy thinks, _Fuck this._

He breaks Roger’s hands from his throat with one swift motion, then knocks him off the bed entirely. Roger’s mouth purses into an “oh” of surprise. 

Like he forgot about Billy’s strength.

Maybe Billy forgot too. Until now. 

He gets dressed (wifebeater, jeans, boots, leather jacket), tells Roger to never call him again, abandons his shit because it’s not important, and catches a bus to West Hollywood. 

The bus spits Billy out onto Santa Monica and he hits the Mother Lode, a queer dive bar first introduced to him by Roger. Not like he needs Roger’s permission to go there. It’s dark and loud and bustling, smelling like strong drink and cigarette smoke and cologne. 

Billy’s head pounds with the music and with desire. So much want here, all out in the open. 

He stands at the bar and watches a small group of older guys around the pool table. They’re probably in their thirties, well-coiffed, expensive-looking. They notice him watching. An impromptu conference over the triangle. One guy, dark hair, reminding Billy of a certain someone, ambles over.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he offers. 

“I don’t know, can you, Pretty Boy?” 

The man smiles, delighted by Billy’s cheek. 

His name is Joe, and he invites Billy to join him and his friends. They’re old college buddies having a night on the town. They’re rich fucks, power fags, investment bankers, lawyers, shit like that. 

The drinks flow. 

Joe earnestly teaches Billy how to play pool, nicely setting Billy up to fleece them all. They’re so loaded they don’t care. 

Neil Hargrove taught his son a thing or two about 8-ball. 

The old man would be proud, if this wasn’t all just foreplay. 

Joe thinks Billy is the cat’s ass. As pool winds down, he announces that they better get going. Turns out these yuppies have tickets to see X – only one of the greatest live punk rock bands – at Whisky a Go Go. One of their buddies is home sick. 

Joe offers his ticket to Billy. 

They pile like puppies into two cabs, limbs pressed together, breath fogging the windows. 

The show is bitchin’. The venue shudders with urgent electric guitar and five hundred pounding bodies. Billy fights his way to the stage like a pilgrim in need of healing. He’s there when Exene Cervenka sings about her dead sister, can see sweat beading on her forehead:

_On the dashboard rides a figurine_

_It's a powerless sweet forgotten thing_

_So the next time you see a statue of Mary_

_Remember my sister was in a car_

_Riding with Mary_

_Protection to pass_

_Riding with Mary_

_Protecting immaculate love_

The song always reminds him of his mother. 

When the show’s over, the crowd spills out of the Whisky onto Sunset. Billy feels like one tiny segment in a large, writhing organism. Joe locates Billy in the chaos, pulls him into his waiting car service, a Lincoln. They cruise through the night for about twenty minutes, their pinkies touching across the leather seats. 

The town car pulls up at a swanky Los Feliz apartment building. Brand-new, modern construction, like it was made from giant Legos. The unit itself looks like a movie set. Billy feels delirious, like maybe this whole night has been a fiction, and he’s unreal. He wants to be real again, solid and undeniable. 

So he tries to rile Joe up. Acts like a real brat, touching art on the walls and moving shit around on the shelves. Whispers in Joe’s ear that he can fuck Billy’s mouth, take his ass raw, do whatever he wants to do.

  
“Just no permanent marks,” he cautions. That’s a rule Roger taught him. 

Joe looks alarmed. He leads Billy to the couch, reaches out and brushes his fingers against Billy’s throat. 

“Are you OK?” Joe asks, serious as a goddamn social worker. 

There must be smudges of bruising there. Roger’s final legacy. Billy nods stiffly. 

“Promise me you’ll always use a condom, or make the other guy wear a condom,” Joe continues, the moment so grave that Billy feels bashful. “I’ve lost good friends. I know at twenty you feel invincible, but the virus is destroying our community.”

Billy wants to tell him, _I don’t feel invincible. I’m not sure I’ll make it to 25, with or without the gay cancer._

But he can’t resist the sincerity in Joe’s big cow eyes. He lets Joe put on his rubber and lube up and “make love” to him on the couch.

It’s tedious. 

Billy’s orgasm, when it’s finally wrung out of him, feels like an afterthought. It scratches one itch but irritates more. His nerves are nowhere near capacity; they keep singing, calling out for attention, stimulation, saturation, overload. 

Not this fussy treatment, like he’s made of glass, like he might shatter. 

Billy Hargrove doesn’t easily break. 

Joe, for his part, is one of those guys that comes and passes right the fuck out. Before he nods off, he smiles sweetly at Billy, murmurs, “Can we do this again? You’ll give me your number?” 

“Yeah, of course, man,” Billy answers as Joe begins to snore. 

Billy extracts himself, gets dressed, and slips out, leaving nothing behind. No evidence. 

He splurges on a cab back to campus. His mind races, thinking about all the shit he needs to do before next week’s flight to Indianapolis. As usual, Dad has summoned him back to Hawkins for winter break, and as usual, he’d rather slowly kill himself with a fork. 

A fight is inevitable. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: The punk rock band X really did play at Whisky a Go Go in December of 1987.


End file.
